Pours very, very thick and smoothy-like. I know this really upsets some people, and while I’ll admit it’s not the prettiest of styles it’s still not bad looking. Also maybe people just don’t care about appearance anymore, since it’s getting cooler and cooler to drink your beer right out of the can like some kind of goddamn animal. Anyhow, it looks like a orange and pineapple smoothie. If you told me they put oil paint in it, or that it was made out of melted halloween masks, I would believe you.

And the smoothie appearance apparently primes my peanut-sized brain into expecting it to actually smell like a smoothie, which it does not. It smells like a beer with a hoppy fruit profile, and while a majority of us beer people haven’t been close to anything to containing vitamins in years and so are easily fooled, this doesn’t *actually* smell like fruit juice. Only kinda sorta. And while it’s a pleasant hop profile, and while this type of fruity-hop-foward beer style is only like 18 months old, it’s already been played out to death. Props to Trillium for being really good in general, but I’ve had and forgotten brews from upstart shitheel breweries that are like 98% as good as this, even though those same brewers couldn’t make a decent amber or simple APA to save their worthless lives. That tells me that this type of beer, while enjoyable, ain’t exactly exceptional, even if it is slightly better than something an amateur could do and therefore in the “elite” tier of IPAs that taste like Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit.

Does this make me a curmudgeon, like those guys who give the appearance of this beer a 1.0 just because it’s so thick and hideous? Have my tastes calcified? M-maybe? I don’t know. Like I said, this isn’t bad. It’s good. I have gladly drank two bombers of it over the past week. It’s just not worthy of extraordinary plaudits, I don’t feel.

I first heard of Kvass in a Russian history class I took as an undergrad, back in 2003. I was a bigtime eager beaver, for some reason, at that point dumb enough to think that trying real hard at college would have some kind of positive impact on my life.

Anyhow, kvass was mentioned in some account of something or other, and I asked the instructor what for it be. He was an animated man, the kind of engaging teacher who made faces and stressed important points with impassioned hand gestures and vocal inflections. In describing kvass, he sounded like a cartoon mad scientist, like if Bill Nye were talking about putrefaction.

The process of making it used to be even more horribly unsanitary than the practices we now associate with Russians. At the turn of the last century, for example, the Russian infant mortality rate was absolutely gigantic, due to the habit of pouring warm milk into bread dough and letting infants suckle upon it for hours on end, as it turned into a seething sea of bacteria. Kvass, he said, was like the bottled version of that.

So, understandably, even though I’ve known of the beverage for 12 years, I’ve never endeavored to find it. But then it was included in a trade, so, okay…

Now you might have heard how in Russia it was only recently they stopped classifying beer as a Soft Drink, because in order for something to be considered Russian-level alcoholic it has to be at least 10% ABV (that’s a true story, at least according to this meme I seen). Kvass was a basically the parallel of European/American small beers that used to be quite popular, back when potable water was scarce and people needed something to drink without getting entirely fucked up. Americans abandoned small beer due to our dueling strains of late 19th century puritanism (Samuel Kellog health nuts on the one side, Carrie Nation and her despicable ilk on the other), and we moved toward coffee and juice and soda. Kvass remained a Russian thing, as did positive attitudes towards being mildly buzzed for 19 hours a day, and cultural/material embargoes kept is a Russian thing for some time.

When the glory of the Soviet Union was prematurely snuffed out by American pig dogs, soda came streaming in all fizzy and proud and wearing sunglasses and skateboarding and shit. Kvass was thought to seem antiquated, and also it was supposedly gross, so it died out pretty quickly.

But now, apparently (according to Wikipedia), kvass is enjoying a cultural renaissance. It’s gotten big enough to have its own category on Beeradvocate, and Americans are super unimpressed.

I have nothing to base my opinion off other than intuition, but I will be fucking shocked if this is how traditional kvasses taste. This is very obviously brewed to the paletes of 2015 American beer people: aggressive, wonderful candy sourness up front, then a back end of light sourness and water. The “candy” part cannot be emphasized enough: of all the sours I’ve ever had, this is the one that most closely resembles a roll of shock tarts.

Frankly, if this were easier to find I would drink it all the time. I’m a compulsive, deeply problemed man, and so exceedingly tasty ultra-low ABV beers are sort of my jam. I hesitate to give this world class ratings simply because I have no frame of reference for this review, but I definitely encourage you to try and find some.

That execrable Deadspin beer section did a review of the GABF, and they said Wigsplitter was the best beer there. That reminded me that I had a bottle of this hidden in the back of my fridge, and that I should probably commence to reviewing before it got any older.

But first, a word: good god, that is some awful beer writing. I know this guy’s trying to not care in the way that nearly all of Gawker media’s consumption-based articles try not care. Deadspin slayeth the sacred cow of the NFL’s integrity, so this emo ballerina guy is gonna totally RIP THE SYSTEM and attempt to review beers he drank while wasted, with a scorched pallet that by his estimate processed at least 200 fucking beers. This is bullshit. Utter and absolute bullshit.

Yes, it’s kind of possible to tell whether a beer is really good or really terrible from only a taster pour. It’s not the most reliable of methods, however, which is why beeradvocate (at least nominally) has a policy in place saying you can’t write reviews based on taster pours. Everyone does it, but they’re not supposed to. And the influx of assholes who do it are part of the reason why so many veteran drunkards refuse to do reviews anymore, which is why the reviewing system is a now a horrific shitshow in which eXtremeness lauded without hesitation but anything more nuanced than Mountain Dew gets shit on, where a beverage that contains more sugar than actual fucking soda can be labeled Craft Beer’s Next Big Thing.

Reviewing isn’t science, obviously. It’s all subjective and myriad unmeasurable factors influence every single review we ever undertake. That’s a good and fine observation—the kind of postmodernism MIND = BLOWN woah dude moment most 13-year-olds are capable of having. Embrace it. Allow yourself a moment to feel smart for making it.

Done? Okay. Now, just because subjectivity is subjective doesn’t mean systems meant to measure perception are totally worthless. It doesn’t mean we should abandon decades of perfectly good precedence and embrace a new system where Brooklyn-based cum trumpets like this guy are given the power to change the industry’s practices because once every several paragraphs he cracks a joke that resembles something Drew Magary might cough up while hungover. Frankly, I’m not even convinced David Obuchowski is an actual alcoholic. I bet that if his doctor told him to stop drinking, he would.

Anyhow, he said Wig Splitter was the best beer he had a GABF. Undoubtedly, a robust, semi-sweet, and absolutely flawless espresso stout would stand out well even to a man 30-odd pours deep. You’ll notice the top of his list is loaded with impy’s and excessively sour beers, because when you swimming in a sea of ticks, you only got time for the big fish, son.

The beer is a Three Floyds stout that is not called Dark Lord, so of course the balance is perfect, the aroma and flavor are both aggressive but smooth, and while it is a clear example of its style it nonetheless contains a handful of distinguishing peculiarities that set it apart from other examples of its style. The sweetness is thick and almost fudgy, like a less alcoholic KTG/Mott the Lesser.

It’s great, really great. Only let’s not say so just because we’re following the lead of the New York blogstablishment. Those people have already ruined movies and politics—they should have no place in beer.

I’ve been to a good number of genuinely pretentious or exclusionary beer joints. The Three Floyds brewpub back in the day, for example, made a point of hiring dismissive assholes as bartenders. They were almost always nice to me, but I saw how they treated others—telling a man that he had to answer a riddle in order to purchase Dark Lord, refusing to pour for people until they pronounced a beer’s name correctly, or otherwise acting like the beer version of Nick Burns: Your Company’s Computer Guy. This is unappealing when the beer is great, a death knell when it’s merely okay.

I don’t think Lord Hobo was being genuinely snobbish or dismissive in their pre-release cockiness (during which time, I’ve been told, they said they were about to release the best IPA in the world). There’s no proof of this other than that every time I’ve been to the bar or brewery I haven’t detected the slightest hint of derision or meanness from any of the staff. They seem nice. Bumptiousness is just their schtick. And, man, has that hurt them.

Also… okay, they have three base IPAs that they mix together for Boom Sauce. Each of those IPAs is better than Boom Sauce. Two of them, including Consolation Prize, are significantly better. Yet they chose Boom Sauce as their widely distributed flagship. I got no idea.

Anyhow, stepping back a bit, taking stock of the YOU GOTTA IMPROVE THE LIQUID, BRO dogpile, it’s become clear that people are shitting on this brewery just for the sake of shitting on them. Because none of their beers are bad, and a couple are actually quite good. Cocksure, yeah. Overpriced, definitely. But still good.

Consolation Prize is the strongest of their four regular IPAs, and also the hardest to find outside of the brewery. It pours thick and very dark, and is absolutely fucking redolent of dense malt and pine hops. The aroma is very similar to the lauded DIPAs of old, basically like a firmer Dreadnaught.

It tastes a bit rough up front, piney with light nodes of syrupy malt. But then near the middle this incredible rush of tropical fruit hops takes over and it does not let go until the very end of the sip, which is buffeted nicely by chewy yeast. After a few sips, my pallet becomes so scorched I no longer detect the roughness of the front half and it’s just like I’m drinking vaguely alcoholic passion fruit punch.

Some may argue about the merits of such an intense cannonball of a beer. It is one of the least delicately brewed DIPAs I’ve ever come across. But it’s new. The body is maybe the thickest I’ve ever come across in a pale ale of any sort, and the massive fruit hop blast is beyond what I thought was possible in a beer. It doesn’t taste quite like anything else I’ve ever had, and I think that’s exactly what they were going for. Imperfect, but still really good.

There’s no need to discuss how weird Icelandic culture can be. All cultures are weird, when you stop to think about it. Can you imagine driving down an American highway with a foreign guy?

FOREIGN GUY
What is “Arby’s?”

ME
It’s a roast beef restaurant.

FOREIGN GUY
Why is their sign a hat?

ME
Because hats are indicative of beef.

See? Everything is strange and dumb. And so I won’t prattle on about how Icelandic spicy licorice tastes the way your dog’s poop would smell if you fed him Jagermesiter, or how the air in Reykjavik is pleasantly redolent of Ricola cough drops, or how all the food was grossly sweet and the man at the ramen place acted surprised when I told him I didn’t want any white sugar poured onto my noodles. There’s no need for any of that.

This review is about drinking. In Reykjavik, Iceland. If you’re doing more in the country, traveling the Ring Road or whatever, you are most likely one of those Dan Cortez types and all you drink is Aspen Edge. This review is for beer people who want to experience a very new and exciting drinking culture, or who can’t afford to experience it on their own and so just want to read about it on the internet.

THE BASICS: LIQUOR
Because of the understandable alcoholism/suicide concerns related to Nordic climates, full-strength beer has only been legal in Iceland since 1989. Before then, all they could get was wine, a small handful of greymarket liquors, a locally produced schnaaps called Brennivin, and “light beer.”

Brennivin is an unsweetened schnaaps that’s flavored with medicinal herbs. That sounds gross but it’s actually quite good: smells like a smoky vodka and tastes like a tincture made of anis and caraway. There’s other spiced varieties, too.

Other “native” Icelandic spirits exist, but they all seem to be modeled after those inedible licorice candies that Icelanders are so fond of. Here’s one called Opal. It was one of the grossest things I’ve ever drank, and so naturally I brought a bottle home with me.

One important note: spirits are very expensive in Iceland. So is everything else, really, but spirits are nutso: a basic gin and tonic will cost you about $20 USD, and it probably won’t be mixed very well. If you absolutely must drink liquor while in Iceland, grab it at the airport’s duty free shop, where you can score a full 750 ml bottle for less than the price of a single cocktail.

THE BASICS: BEER

Earlier, when I mentioned “light” beer, I should have written it LIGHT, in all caps, because the cut off was 2.2% alcohol, or roughly half the strength of Coors Light. These are the only beers you’ll find in most grocery and convenience stores, and they are deceptively labeled—you really got to squint to see the 2.2.

None of these tasted bad, really. They were all more flavorful than Bud Light. But—it’s the damndest thing, but I could not finish a .5l can of any of them. I would chug and chug and the sons of bitches never got more than halfway finished.

Next up are American-style adjuncts. Of these, Gull is the undisputed king:

Gull is pronounced “Gurdt,” and it tastes like ass. Or, actually, it resembles those Minhas-made Simpler Times beers they sell at Trader Joe’s. It ain’t nothing but a grainbill, and the grainbill is excessively sweet.

If a restaurant only has one tap, their menu might list Gull simply as “draft beer.” Accordingly, I accidentally ordered it several times, and it sort of began to grow on me. It was never enjoyable, but it wasn’t badly brewed. It’s just a flavor I didn’t like, and there wasn’t enough time to develop a taste for it.

Gull is made by Egil, who are like Iceland’s AB: none of their beers are good, even for their styles. The second most ubiquitous beer is Thule (pronounced “To-Lay”), produced by the superior Viking Brewery. It was pretty good. It kind of reminded me of fresh Old Milwaukee: crisp grain with a little bit of a sour complication and a small kiss o’ the hops. Tallboys were easy to come across as concerts and seedier bars.

Before coming to Iceland, I had heard that Viking’s flagship offering, “Viking,” was the country’s most popular beer. I went to over a dozen bars and restaurants, however, and never once did I see it on tap. So I dunno.

Along with these mid-strength beers, Viking and Egil produced “Strong Beers.” If you’re offered a strong beer, this is what you will get:

These are classified as Euro Strong Lagers, which is about as godforsaken a beer category as you’re likely to find. Think of a beer as strong as a truly strong American malt liquor, like OE 800, with tons of sweet, astringent barley alcohol. Only Euro strongs don’t cut their sweetness with corn or rice, so they taste like a King Cobra that was mixed with frosting.

Thankfully, Viking’s Sterkur (which translates as “strong”) reminded me of Carlsberg’s Elephant. It was totally okay, even if got really burny near the end.

Sterkurs are popular with Icelandic derelicts. Icelandic derelicts appear much more wizened and mysterious than their American counterparts, because they wear scarves and smoke unfiltered cigarettes. Do not be fooled by these appearances. If you happen upon these men in the park, they will tell you poorly translated jokes about sheep farmers and keep begging you for rolling tobacco.

But, like I said, you can’t buy these at just any store. You have to go to a state-run liquor store, or a store that has a special license. They are often kept behind the counter, so you have to ask for them special.

THE “HOT STUFF”Icleland’s home to a handful of legit craft breweries, but the only one that’s easy to find outside of designated beer spots is Borg, particularly their porter. Borg’s imperial stout got a little bit of hype a year or two ago, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. The regular porter was solid.

Many restaurants will advertise “craft beer” on their signs. This is just a signal that they’re trying to be hip to contemporary American dining trends. Unless you’ve heard of them elsewhere, these places will typically have 3 taps maximum and the fanciest beer will be Borg’s porter.

To find the good stuff, you got to go to good places. And, brother, there’s a couple of real good places:

Micro Bar was the first American-style craft beer bar in Iceland, and their dedication to craft is astounding. They offer 10 constantly rotating taps that mostly feature Icelandic beer, though I saw Brewdog and a couple of Scandavian offerings. Their bottle list is the among most impressive I’ve ever seen:

They will often have Cantillion and Westy bottles, but unfortunately none were available during my trip (even though Westy 12 was on the chalkboard and I was totally willing to shell out 45 bucks for it). The rarest thing they had when I was there was that 45% ABV IPA from Brewdog, which was packaged in a terrifying paper bag. No way was I gonna put that shit in me.

Micro Bar is attached to a mid-priced hotel and the décor reflects as much. This is actually nice, as it’s classy and accessible without seeming oppressively formal or self-consciously weird.

They offer .25 and .5l pours, and the prices aren’t much steeper than what you’d pay at, say, Map Room, Blue Palms, or Lord Hobo. There’s also a daily happy hour that knocks a couple of bucks off of each drink, and they offer reasonably priced flights of all their taps. And the Belgian bottles actually cost less than what you’d pay at most American bars. Pretty slick.

So there I was, thinking that Micro was just the bee’s knees, I’d found my resting spot, when I traveled a few blocks away and happened upon this gem:

G-good heavens:

Mikkeler and Friends is self-consciously weird, but it pulls it off. There’s a difference between the fun guy who owns a pink couch and has all the episodes of Family Ties on VHS just because he’s fucking weird and the other guy who gets “I’M ZANY” tattooed across his neck because he wants to pretend to be weird. Mikkeller falls into the former category. The bar is circus themed and lined with the brewery’s pleasantly European bottle art:

The decor exudes a dull trippiness that’s enough to keep you engaged without jarring you awake—like a good David Lynch film. The storefront itself is narrow, maybe about half the length of your average American bar. The bar area features track lighting and a very comprehensive chalkboard listing nearly 2 dozen tap selections. There’s a primary seating area alongside the bar, which features Mikkeller artwork, and then attic seating upstairs.

The prices are quite high, even for Iceland. Pours at most places are 500 ml. Here, they are 200 or 400. High-abv beers cost about 1,500 ikr for a 200 ml pour, which is about $11.25 for 6.8 ounces of beer. Ooch.

Everything else is wonderful, though. The crowd and bartenders are friendly. Even on a solstice Saturday night, with the rest of the city descending into drunken bedlam, M&F remained peaceable and friendly. I asked why this was, and the bartender explained that this was the sort of place people go to have 1 or 2 nice beers. The Severe Drunkards, myself notwithstanding, frequented louder joints that served hard liquor and don’t cost so much.

]]>http://mynie.com/?feed=rss2&p=9300930Portland’s Bounty: Zwanze Day and Farm to Facehttp://mynie.com/?p=926
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Zwanze Day means a bad weekend for us beer hoarders. Er… former beer hoarders, actually, as I had to liquidate my cellar to finance a cross-country move. Since then, the rare or rareish releases I acquire go into my belly within a few hours of their entering my filthy, godforsaken sight.

How did the old reserve get built up? I never, like, intentionally tried to fill up a whole cellar.

Well, for one thing, I used to get more at beer releases, because beer releases used to be fun things to do on a weekend instead of Major Media Events. Dark Lord Day meant getting shitblasted by noon surrounded by a bunch of my obese and black-hearted brethren. There was no worry of running into coworkers, or people who watch local news, or really anyone who would bat an eye at a grown man aspirating vomit in front of his family while the sun was still up. Good times, then. The scene’s been ruined by the influx of normals.

Also, people used to be less savvy and so they’d trade you some obscure, undervalued, 500-bottle release local for a bigger name brewery release, like Dark Lord. Not that I ever thought I was taking advantage of anybody—the exact opposite was the case more often than not, such as the time I excepted a bomber of Dragon’s Milk for a Darkness—but the dynamics were different. Beer trading didn’t used to bring out the very worst in humanity.

Now, Dark Lord itself tastes like milk chocolate soy juice, and Dark Lord Day means you get to buy a scratch off so you have a one in four chance of it being a worthwhile release. And other fests are likewise gated and inaccessible. Getting into a Hill Farmstead release has the same odds as winning fifty bucks off a pulltab, and it comes with the bonus of having to drive home through dark mountains where your GPS don’t work. In May, I bought a ten dollar raffle ticket because I thought he prize was a bottle of BCS Proprietors. Turns out the prize was the chance to buy a bottle of Proprietors, for fifty bucks. I asked the guy what the raffle funds went for, then, and he says they use it buy more beer. What the fuck?

So I and other jaded middle income dudes have begun to embrace flagships and sessions. I’ll drive up to Tributary or Hill Farmstead every couple of months, sure, but I’m rarely going to end up scoring something that’ll be worth writing about on this here fancyman blog. I’m fine with Tributary’s heavenly porter, or even Portsmouth’s Stephan Urquell. No need to show off with my drinkin.

The result has been a much more enjoyable approach to beerdom. I don’t feel like I gotta get dem ticks, or produce content for readership that never measured beyond the mid-hundreds. That crap might have been worth it if we were scoring press release bottles, but we pointedly will never write the sort of prostrated, frothing bullshit that scores press release bottles. Also, we smell too bad and have to many sex offender incidents on our records to become employed by the sorts of places that would have access to press release bottles.

And so, roundabouts, Zwanze Day sounds like the fest for guys like me. Tons of good shit, all relatively reasonably priced, all without having to pay a cover or stand in a long line unless you’re stupid and you go to Lord Hobo.

The only catch is you can’t take any home. So you can’t screw people on trades later. Also, wonderfully, there are no mules! Everyone there is expected to actually drink the beer they purchase, and this thins the crowds out fantastically (like what Vietnam did to boomers).

Novare Res put on a great fest. The vibe was chill, medium-volume, surprisingly diverse and not at all douchey. You got a handful of neophyte beer braggorts, but mostly it was old and oldish dudes who were content to simply drink.

After the fest, we stopped by Portland’s Craft Beer Cellar, where the selection was fresh and wide and filled with wonderful flagship options that are the heart and soul of the American craft beer scene. We purchased marzens and pilseners and medium-ABV pales. The good stuff. Nothing fancy, son. No need—wha—what’s this, sitting by the counter all alone, uncovered, just asking for it?

I was suspicious, as if the bottle was rigged, like if I pulled on it a trapdoor would open up and I’d be showered with ping pong balls.

“C-can I just buy this?”

“Yeah?” said the guy behind the counter. “Only there’s a limit of two.”

No lines, no waiting, no having to hand over other beers to butter up the clerk, no having to pay for the chance to pay again. A good, rare beer sat atop a counter, because Portland is beautiful.

It pours yellow, lightly hazy and medium fizzy. I can’t claim to be a sour expert, but of all the sours I’ve had, this one smells the most like a nice Mexican soda. Not that disgusting, syrupy Jarriots shit, either. The good Goya stuff, that actually resembles juice—lactic, but soft, and discernably peachy.

The flavor is likewise soft and juicy while still bringing in lactic complexities and some faint, pleasant vinegar nodes. One of the most middle of the road sours I’ve ever come across, which is wonderful for a peach-based beer. Starts sweet and fruity, the middle is more crisp and sour, and finish is dry without being too try. Just—wonderfully balanced. Even the body is somehow light while also being firm and fizzy.

Just in time for the anniversary of the day freedom was born, Indeed Brewing drops this bittersweet liquid reminder of our country’s god-given duty to not only let us roll, but to also let it roll.

And like a pack of renegade air travelers this beer don’t take shit. When forced against its will into a shaker glass of captivity a light tan head repels a melon-y, bubblegum bouquet. The aroma is distinctively like hay in a rubber bottle, which also is allowed to be packed in your carry-on bag.

Once on board, the sharp malt flavor finds its seat behind an entire row of hops carefully selected for one mission: to overpower this IPA and bring its heavy malt structure to the ground. The beer takes off without incident. Cruising across the palate it remains on course for a typical hopped-up, light bodied journey. But then shortly after reaching altitude the grains come through dark and cloying, with hints of carob. The beer’s been hijacked! There becomes a discrete segregation of the front, those suspicious-looking hops immediately profiled as possibly the German Hull Melon variety, and the back, those remaining passengers whose patriotic righteousness expresses “No way, hombre! Not with me onboard!”

The back end’s malt majority attempts to overcome and disable its captors with complex, multi-grain teamwork, and many sweet catchphrases are uttered during the struggle. Heroism, American heroism, gets blasted on full fuckin’ display. Several hops go down, but some still leach through until the very final end.

Alas, the beer is gone, lost in the brutal collision of its vessel’s contents into the belly of grim reality. Even with an adorable old warehouse filled with recently upgraded brewing equipment, all beers must eventually go to drunk.

This September, grab one of these sonsabitches and commend the heroes inside, if only for the hope that the taste may enlighten us – strengthen us – with the same sense of boxcutter-deflecting badassness.

Poured into an Alchemist glass even though I own an HF glass because I will god-damned if I’m gonna drink a pilsener out of a chalice. Also, side note, why does Alchemist make glasses if you’re supposed to drink all their beers right out of the can? I am the only one of you people who’s paying any attention? What about ETHICS IN BEER JOURNALISM?!? We need a #drunkardgate, only instead of being mean to women on twitter we’ll base it around getting wasted ethically. Everyone wins.

Okay, so I had this at Hill Farmstead’s newly opened taproom, where you can get full pours. I was already drunk and palette-wrecked off of Heady, so I’m glad I had sense enough to discard my notes and take home a 750 of this.

It pours like a nice Euro pils—dark gold, filtered, with a steady white head that laces mightily.

Smells fantabulous. Mild herbal profile against aggressive, dry German hops that could easily be mistaken for Saaz. The German grain aromas become more pronounced as I gain familiarity with the beer and it ends up tasting like an absolutely perfect blend between a Municher and a Czech pils (although the hops are German, they’re aggressive and spicy enough to resemble Czech beers).

Tastes like it smells: a wonderfully balanced-yet-aggressive pils. Medium grain, big hops, kiss of yeast, and then zero esters. Finishes dry as can be.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a good, fresh Prima Pils, and even longer since I had FFF’s criminally underrated Czech Booty Camp, so I can’t say for sure that Mary unseats either of them as the best American-brewed pils. I can say, however, that it easily sit alongside them in the upper tier.

I don’t recall there ever being a louder, emptier hype. This is a real good beer bar! That means they logically must produce real good beer! Because those two things are exactly the same. Right? R-right?

Anyhow, the reviews have been middling. And the price the exorbitant. I paid $4.20 for a single, 16-ounce can. Heady Topper costs $3.12.

So, whatever. I bought it. No one forced me to. The hype had got to me, as did the dream of perhaps getting to stick it to the all know-it-all beer nerds, drop some serious knowledge about how this is actually an amazing new chapter in the history of beer. Bring in on, Hobos! I’m ready for your barrage of shanties and kettle-cooked beans!

Annnnd it’s just okay. Tastes like a really middle of the road DIPA from 2006.

Tastes great up front, actually: bready malt, almost English-tasting, against verdant American hops. But then the malt starts to get syrupy, as old school DIPAs are wont to do. The balance gets thrown off by the back end, and a lingering sour aftertaste does little to bring things together.

Really, this is an impressive early offering. Were it not for the hype and price, I and everyone else would have high hopes for this scrappy little brewery. But the hobos might have done themselves in, what with their pre-existing hipness raising expectations and all.

]]>http://mynie.com/?feed=rss2&p=8920892Oak Aged Bretta, and the gross state of beer tradinghttp://mynie.com/?p=885
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Cut to a beer forum. Could be any beer forum. Could be your beer forum.

A youngster was kind enough to score a second bottle of Logsdon’s still-kinda-buzzy Oak Aged Bretta from the liquor store. Rather than drink them both, he decides to expand his horizon a bit and see if he can do a $4$ trade with someone else, for something he can’t get in his local market.

FT: Oak Aged Bretta. ISO: Something good. Whatever you want to offer.

This elicits tumbleweeds. But then, suddenly:

OMG check out this NEW MONEY r-tard. He doesn’t even know precisely which vintage of some garage-brewed lacto hefe he wants in exchange for this shelf turd. Lol what a fucking newb.

To wit I respond:

Shut up. Shut the fuck up. Fucking die. You whalez people disgust me. Your existence does more to prove those Occupy kids right than any Citibank bailout ever possibly could. Because you’re obviously rich enough to afford dropping 3k per month on beers no reasonable human gives a fuck about yet still unimportant or worthless enough to spend 8 hours a day digging through beer forums and making runs to the UPS store. I pray I shall live to see the Soviet-style liquidation of you and your kind.

Er… okay. Let’s settle down.

Just a few years ago, it seemed like this was one of the most desirable buzz beers. Now I found it sitting unassumingly upon a liquor store shelf—didn’t even have to go through any of that Binny’s bullshit to get it. There was no making small talk with the clerk. No reaching behind the counter. No signing up for the release weeks in advance and leaving work early to grab it before someone else does.

But a lack of hype does not mean a lack of quality. Or—god, does it? Is my very pallet, my ability to physically experience things, actually influenced by the perceived rarity of a beer?

It might be. I don’t know. Because as insane and delicious as this sounded when I first heard of this in 2012, when it was effectively unattainable, it now seems a little pedestrian. Not bad at all. Quite well brewed and expertly aged. But when everybody else has copied your idea so much that your product no longer causes neckbeard traders to salivate, that—that—that, I gues that means it effects the way the beer tastes. Because I am an inhuman monster. I am basically as bad as the beer trading guy.

Pours quite dark for the style with a small head that fades quickly. Smells tart, very brett-forward, with only light hints of whiskey. No discernible fruit complexities, not even as it warms, but the balance is nice.

Tastes much more complex than it smells. Tart cherry nodes up front remain present throughout but morph as they mellow, producing hints of sherbert and melons before smoothing out into a spicy, lightly boozy saison.